Arcahia nodded in deep thought, seemingly unsurprised by the question. He looked Yeshua deep in the eyes and blasted him with a love so strong, Yeshua almost lost his balance.
“Let me speak to the High Brahmin,” he said. “I’ll see what we can do.”
With those words, Arcahia flicked his wrist to show the discussion was over. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and resumed his meditation. Yeshua pressed his palms together, bowed his head, and backed out of the cell.
But he couldn’t sleep. The marketplace with its vibrant noise, scents, and colors had tickled all his senses, but he pitied the impoverished people who had shrugged out of their way in fear. He would like to do something for them, change their lives. But how? And then he remembered the wave of pure love Arcahia had sent through him. He sighed; to reach such enlightenment, he had to free himself of all desires, including the need to save others, and even the yearning for enlightenment.
Had he set himself an impossible goal?
A week passed. Two weeks. Three weeks. Still no word from Arcahia. Yeshua meditated, performed his daily chores, and attended his lessons as if nothing had changed. He tried to be satisfied with what he had, but every night he dreamed that he was a guru who walked among the common people and taught them about God. The more he tried to quell his desire, the stronger it burned. Meditation became his only refuge, his only source of peace.
One day, in meditation, he heard God’s voice as clear as any man’s: “You are already holy in your heart. Serve me, and you will bring salvation to the world.”
Yeshua looked up and around him in the darkness of his cell. Was someone playing a trick on him? But then his eyes filled with tears; it was the same message he had heard as a child. If studying in this temple was all that God had planned for him, it had to be good enough.
The next day, Arcahia called him aside after class. “Issa, the High Brahmin has asked me to make a pilgrimage to the holy city of Benares with three Brahmins.” Yeshua waited patiently for Arcahia to continue. “I’ve asked that Vasanta join me.”
Yeshua nodded, surprised that he didn’t feel envious at all, only excited for Vasanta; a pilgrimage would work wonders for him.
“Guru Udraka, he will also join us.” Arcahia paused and looked straight through Yeshua, as if waiting for his reaction.
“May your journey be safe and successful.” Yeshua bowed his head and pressed his palms together in front of his heart.
“You would like to accompany us, is that correct?”
Yeshua smiled. Was Arcahia testing him? “May Brahman guard your every step. May your speech be one with your mind, and your mind be one with your—”
“Issa, we would be pleased if you joined us. It might benefit you to see how our teaching affects the common man.”
This time Yeshua’s heart didn’t skip a single beat. At peace, he nodded his assent, just as Kahanji had taught him, aware of his own irrelevance.
Yeshua cherished walking for hours on end, sometimes without uttering a single word. He enjoyed not knowing what they would discover around the next bend and found it always looked different from expected. The Brahmins—two gurus and two apprentices—crossed the lush lands of Orissa. They paused in every village to share lessons from the Vedas in exchange for food and lodging—just like the nomadic preachers in Palestine his father so despised. Often they were met by a crowd of excited peasants who had heard about the White Brahmins who preached the word of God. But Yeshua’s excitement dwindled every time the village men chased away the women and children. Udraka also shooed away the poor farmers, craftsmen, and any servants who dared approach, reminding Yeshua that only those of warrior and priestly families were permitted to learn about the Holy Scriptures.
Arcahia and Udraka took turns teaching, each in his own style. Arcahia spoke with passion and treated all strangers like long-lost friends. Udraka, despite his vast knowledge, stuttered through a dry and practiced script. If someone in the audience raised his voice either in disagreement or to express an opinion, Udraka raised his fist and ordered him to leave. Yeshua couldn’t help but wonder what Kahanji would have done. Perhaps he would have hit Udraka with his stick and asked him in his gruff voice if a demon had seized him. Yeshua grinned at the thought. He missed his guru. Kahanji had been ever so hard to please, never satisfied with anything but perfection, but he had taught Yeshua practically everything he knew.
Every few days, Yeshua asked Arcahia when he could teach, but the answer was always the same: “Be patient. Your time will come. Let us make the mistakes.”
Yeshua quieted his ego and welcomed the unique opportunity to study the gurus as they passed through dozens of villages. Despite his temper, Udraka could be quite funny. Once he overcame his shyness and his expressions became more animated, the crowd couldn’t get enough of his stories. Arcahia’s strength lay in his clarity and his positive disposition when something went wrong—like the day his class was interrupted by a small herd of curious goats or when they were caught in a downpour and had to seek shelter in a women’s tent. And, Yeshua found, when they used personal anecdotes of how a passage of the Upanishads had changed their lives, everyone leaned forward and devoured each word.
During the walks between villages, Yeshua practiced his teaching silently in his head. He pictured himself as the perfect speaker—relating anecdotes in his own words and with his own gestures. He fantasized about using parables to get people involved in the narrative and make them remember it. And if they didn’t quite understand the message at first, perhaps they would ponder the story until the actual meaning became clear. One day he hoped to be a light-bearer, someone who ignited fires in dormant souls and awakened them to the Brahman inside that Arcahia said was alive in every being.
After six months, the Brahmins reached the valley town of Rajagriha, not far from the Holy Mother Ganges River. That night, as the boys rolled out their sleeping mats in the yard of the local temple, Udraka called out, “Vasanta Brahmas, tomorrow you will teach.”
Vasanta froze, his arms still raised to shake his mat. “Me?”
But Udraka had already pulled his sleeping cloth over his face to signal he was not to be disturbed.
“Yeshua!” Vasanta said, his face tense with fear. “You heard Udraka? What he said?”
Yeshua watched his friend, stunned. Vasanta had lived in the temple all his life and studied the scriptures since childhood, but he wasn’t ready. He forced himself to swallow his pride and put his arm around Vasanta. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine!”
“But I don’t even know how to start,” Vasanta said, his voice choking. “I need more time.”
Yeshua yawned, rubbing his eyes, and looked longingly at his sleeping mat, then back at his friend. “Let’s practice,” he said, and took Vasanta by the hand. “And I promise, by tomorrow morning, you’ll know exactly what to do.”
They walked barefoot through the rice fields. The moon played hide-and-seek among cinnamon-colored clouds in a dark blue sky as Vasanta and Yeshua discussed the story they loved the best, where Krishna tells Arjuna he is an incarnation of God. Vasanta repeated the story over and over, going over passages where he stumbled until the words and gestures were etched into his memory.
Yeshua encouraged him. “Look people in the eye, pause to give them time to consider what you have said. And smile. If you lose your way, take a deep breath and continue. Remember: friendliness goes a long way.”
By the time they returned to their sleeping mats, their feet were wrinkled from walking in the inundated fields. Birds were chirping in the trees. It wouldn’t be long before their gurus woke for morning prayers.
Vasanta dragged his feet through the dew-laden grass up the hill to Vulture’s Peak, where legend said the Buddha once had preached on a plateau overlooking the fertile valley. Eagles soared above, and rabbit-like pikas peered out from crevices in the jagged rock face. A fresh breeze promised a perfect day.
At the top of the hill, they lit incense and spread flowe
r petals in front of the provisional rock altar. Sweat trickled down Vasanta’s face as they chanted a mantra to open the lesson. He had closed his eyes, and furrowed his brow in deep concentration. At the last verse, Arcahia, Udraka, and Yeshua took a seat beside the altar, and left Vasanta alone before the crowd.
Blushing, Vasanta drew a deep breath and closed his eyes again, breathing in and out until he had regained his center.
“Friends of Rajagriha, I salute you. Welcome.” His voice trembled.
Yeshua cringed. Vasanta didn’t aspire to teach; he would happily spend his life meditating in a cave, isolated from the rest of the world. But as the audience grew quiet, Vasanta garnered his courage. Old or young, well dressed or in tatters, they all stared in awe at the White Brahmin before them. Yeshua’s heartbeat slowed to a normal pace.
“Today I will tell you about Krishna, who came to earth as a reincarnation of the god Vishnu. He was a young…” Vasanta ran out of breath and he blushed again. He scratched his beard, drew a deep breath, and attempted a smile. “Krishna was a handsome man—very handsome—and he, he was working…as a charioteer for…for…for—”
“Prince Arjuna,” Udraka supplied, “who was going to war to—” and he motioned for Vasanta to carry on.
“Um…regain the…kingdom. The kingdom…that his family had lost…”
Vasanta stuttered and staggered through the story. Udraka and Arcahia filled in a phrase here, an image there, and interrupted at times to make sure the audience understood the message: when you eliminate distress from your life, only blissful enlightenment remains.
At the end of the lesson, when the sun had reached high enough to burn their scalps, almost everyone stayed to ask the gurus questions and hear more about this incredible deity called Krishna.
Yeshua stole away to meditate. He tried to be happy for Vasanta, but there was a hole in his heart. Vasanta had failed the test. What if his failure meant that his teachers would never give Yeshua a chance?
He might never be allowed to teach.
Chapter Sixteen
Benares, AD 15
The silhouette of the ancient city of Benares emerged through the mist across the Ganges River, sketching the horizon with temples and domes. A light haze colored the buildings a pale rose, as if the entire city were enveloped in dreams. Yeshua shivered with excitement as they waited to be ferried on a raft across the river.
The road brimmed with the terminally ill, the aged, and the crippled, who crawled on their hands and knees or staggered forward one step at a time, determined to reach the other side of the river before death caught them. There, at last, they could die in peace, because everyone knew that dying in Benares was a sure way to Nirvana.
By the time they crossed the river, night had already fallen. In the distance, fires lit up the embankment and the wind carried the smell of searing flesh.
“Are those people cooking?” Yeshua asked, surprised that they would serve meat in such a sacred place.
Arcahia put a finger to his lips as he stared out over the water. A small black log floated past. Yeshua was about to pick it up when he realized what he was looking at: five charred fingers at the end of a scorched arm. They weren’t roasting meat at the fires; they were burning corpses. People came to Benares to die. Their bodies were cremated and the remains returned to Mother Ganges.
When Arcahia saw that Yeshua had understood, he returned his focus to the prayer beads in his hand, passing them through his fingers, repeating a silent mantra.
It was well past midnight when they reached the shore. Yeshua and Vasanta followed their teachers up the embankment, past the men and women sleeping on the wide stairs, through a labyrinth of dark alleys, up more steps, around a corner, and down another alley until Yeshua had lost all sense of direction. The mud stuck to his feet, and the pack on his back grew heavier with every step.
“Master, it’s late,” he said. “Can we please stop here and rest?”
“It is not safe. A little bit farther, boys. Don’t give up.” Arcahia increased his pace with long, vigorous strides. Yeshua and Vasanta looked at each other and sighed. What was that passage in the Upanishads? “A man must free himself from the impulses that tie him to his body and become indifferent to feeling hungry, thirsty, cold, warm, or tired.” Yes, that was it. Yeshua concentrated on separating from his body, like he did when he was hungry. He stayed close behind Arcahia, who sprinted up a hill as if they had just started walking.
Yeshua closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. He imagined he had just woken up, that his limbs were full of life and energy. When he opened his eyes, the fatigue was gone. The pack on his back that had weighed him down only moments before was as light as the wind. He started running, his legs almost flying away with him, and he reached the top in no time.
Arcahia winked. “You’re learning, Issa.”
For a moment, Yeshua let himself bask in the praise. Pride was a much more difficult animal to tame.
“Careful, now.” Arcahia struck him gently with his walking stick, always aware of what Yeshua was thinking.
At last, the four White Brahmins unrolled their mats in an empty field and lay down to sleep under a grove of trees. A soft breeze cooled their overheated bodies. Before long, they were all asleep.
A troop of monkeys woke them with their chatter. They danced around the sleeping Brahmins, shrieking and pulling at their sacks. Udraka jumped up and chased futilely after them. Yeshua laughed so hard that tears rolled down his face. The monkeys were clever: as soon as Udraka chased one away, another was digging into the guru’s travel sack. Udraka screamed and swore and whipped at them until the animals finally gave up and scurried away to find food elsewhere.
“They’re just monkeys, Teacher!” Vasanta laughed. All his life he had seen simians from the nearby jungle steal a banana here, a naan there. “They’re hungry, just like us.”
“But I’ve got nothing,” Udraka said. He turned his sack inside out for proof.
“So there’s nothing to steal.” Arcahia chuckled.
Udraka muttered to himself as he put his clothes back. Then he swung around with a defiant grin. “They wanted to take my loincloth! You want me to walk around naked? Is that it?”
Yeshua and Vasanta doubled over with laughter. Arcahia put his arm around Udraka to calm him. They were used to each other’s quirks.
“Let’s bathe in the Ganges,” Arcahia said, after the laughter had subsided.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
What a pell-mell: people, cows, monkeys, snake charmers, wherever they looked. Men and women stood in the river, water up to their waists, chanting. Holy men in mustard robes and turbans meditated on the stairs, their faces streaked with red and yellow dyes. Cows rummaged through heaps of garbage, poking their noses for anything edible, and children chased monkeys down the alleys. The White Brahmins of Jagannath might have stood out in their impeccably white robes, but nobody stared. In this city of God, everyone minded their own business.
On the stairs, a beggar without arms and with mere stumps for legs wormed his way toward Yeshua, pleading with his eyes for something to eat. Yeshua’s chest tightened. He didn’t even have a crumb of bread to share. Perhaps later, once he had something to eat, he could come back.
He smiled apologetically at the beggar and walked away.
“Why don’t you bathe?” Vasanta called to Yeshua. He had already plunged his lanky body into the murky water. “Come, it will refresh you.”
Yeshua dipped his toes in the river; the coolness enticed him. He stepped into the water, closed his eyes, and opened his heart to receive whatever Mother Ganges would offer. Another step, and he was up to his ankles. He inched forward, reciting the Gayatri mantra in his mind until he was up to his neck in the river. He squatted, lowered his head, and dove under the surface until he could no longer hold his breath. He sprang up, gasped for air, and swam forward. His head nearly exploded with light. He swam under and above the surface, stroke by stroke, until he was satur
ated with the river’s blessing.
As if cast into another dimension, Yeshua sat on the bank and crossed his legs in lotus position. The world had shifted. The sounds around him were a hundred times sharper, the smells a thousand times stronger, and everything around him was enveloped in waves of energy. He wanted to stay right in that moment and never return. Nothing, absolutely nothing else mattered. The world was a perfect place, and the people around him were sublime. The white cows grinned at him with their big teeth. The cripples had come here to fulfill their purpose. A healthy body didn’t guarantee happiness any more than the lack of arms caused grief. Ultimate bliss resided in the soul, the atma. The atma was God. And everyone and everything was God.
Yeshua could have stayed in trance forever, but the aroma of fried pastries and milky chai teased him back. His fellow Brahmins had spread out an assortment of foods on the stairs and feasted on spicy vegetable samosas. But Yeshua was no longer hungry. His body was satiated with spirit, and his physical needs seemed arbitrary. Instead, he remembered his silent promise to the beggar. He selected a puffed pastry stuffed with lentils, picked up a mug of tea, and returned to feed the cripple.
The man seemed to have expected Yeshua’s return. How easy it was to communicate with a mute: Yeshua simply opened his heart and connected their atmas. The beggar had lived on this very spot for years. His life wasn’t bad. He was always hungry but never starving. Most pilgrims were generous, and barely a day passed without his receiving something to eat. But could Yeshua please bring him closer to the river for a blessing?
The man wheezed with delight when Yeshua carried him down the stairs and placed him waist-deep into the water. He held the cripple in his arms and helped him float in the sacred waves. Quietly, Yeshua chanted a healing mantra while the cripple absorbed the sacredness of Mother Ganges.
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